Iain Pears - An Instance of the Fingerpost

“Yes, thank you. It is a migraine, to which I am prone. I think it must be the city air, and the heat in your apartment. I am not used to it.”

Collop at least had the grace to offer instantly to withdraw. I heard the ceremonious and courteous way in which she thanked him for calling, and summoned the servant to show him out. It was some considerable time, I think—it could have been minutes but just as easily hours—before I was able to leave that window. She had, by then, produced a cold compress which she placed on my forehead, and a glass of chilled wine to restore my senses. She was, in fact, a naturally kind woman, one of the kindest I have known.

“I must offer you my apologies,” I said eventually. “I fear I must have caused you grave embarrassment.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “You lie there until you feel able to move. I did not understand the import of the words entirely, but I could see they were a grave shock to you.”

“That they were,” I said. “Worse than I imagined. I should have known, of course, that something this mean was behind everything, but I have looked so long that its discovery took me entirely by surprise. I am not, it seems, a man for a real crisis.”

“Would you like to tell me?” she said as she bathed my forehead once more. She was close to me, and her perfume no longer repelled me, but had the precise opposite effect; the warmth of her bosom against my arm similarly excited hidden feelings deep inside me. I held her hand as it rested on my chest and drew it close, but before I could make my desires known further, she stood up and walked back to her seat, giving me a sad, and I think regretful, smile.

“You have had a shock,” she said. “It would be best not to follow it up with a mistake. I think you have more than enough powerful enemies already without seeking to make new ones.”

She was right, of course, although I could have answered that with so many, one more would make little difference. But she was not willing; that would have made no difference with the Kitty I originally knew, but I was as under the spell of the times as much as anyone. Despite everything, I could not but treat her as a woman of standing, and so desisted, even though to continue would have brought much needed release.

“So? Are you going to explain why you turned so pale?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “No,” I said. “This goes too deep. It is not that I do not wish to confide in you, but I am anxious lest anything be known of my progress. I do not wish to forewarn anyone. But please tell your lord of my gratitude, and my intention to act on his words speedily.”

She agreed to this, and reined in her curiosity with dignity. For my part, my business was done, and I prepared to leave. Again and again, I thanked her for her kindness and her usefulness, and wished her well in her fortune. She kissed me lightly on the cheek on our parting, the first time, I believe, a woman had ever done such a thing to me, for my mother never touched me at all.

The journey back to Oxford gave me time to consider everything I had heard and learned, although the malevolence which had dogged me for so long continued to swirl all around. The horses slipped their harness and had to be recovered by the coachman; a sudden and unlikely storm suddenly blew up out of nowhere and turned the road into a sea of mud; most frightening of all, a huge crow flew into the carriage when one of the passengers lifted the blind, and fluttered around in panic, pecking and beating its wings against us—myself most of all—before being strangled and its corpse hurled out again. It was not only myself who saw these mishaps as more than mere accident; a minister also traveling to Oxford was similarly concerned, and even remarked how the ancients viewed such birds as evil portents, and the emissaries of malevolent spirits. I did not tell him he was nearer the truth than he knew.

This reminder of the darkness to which I was returning weighed on my mind, but I put it from me enough to turn over again and again the catalogue of misdeeds that my enquiries had brought to light. By the time I arrived in Oxford, it was all laid out and the case was as clear and lucid as any presented in a court of law. A fine speech, it would have been, although I never had cause to deliver it. I fear that I caused some consternation in the coach as we lumbered toward Oxford, for I became so involved in my thoughts that I must have talked aloud on several occasions, and made dramatic gestures with my arms to emphasize the points I was making to myself.

But for all the bravado of my mind, I knew that I was not yet finished. A perfect argument, flawless in its conception and its development, leading toward a conclusion that is unavoidable in its logical progression, is all very well in disputation where power of structure will carry all before it. It is of less use in the courtroom, whatever the rhetoricians say of their art. No; I needed testimony as well and, what was more, I needed it from someone who would match the standing of those gentlemen I would be accusing. I could hardly, after all, rely on Morland or Lord Mordaunt to speak truth, and Sir John Russell had made his partialities perfectly clear. Thurloe would not speak for me, and Dr. Grove could do me little good.

Which meant I had to see Sir William Compton. He, I was still sure, was as upright and honest a man as could be, and the thought that my suspicions about him were certainly wrong came as the greatest relief. It would have been impossible to persuade him to act dishonorably, and I was certain he consented to the sale of my lands only when he was convinced my father’s sin was so great that no further consideration need be given my family. To consider yourself betrayed by a man you called friend, this would have been a bitter blow indeed. And if he believed my father, his closest comrade, a traitor, then others would as well—that, surely, was why he was chosen to disseminate the information.

I could not go to see him directly as the weather was so bad the roads were all but impassable and, in any case, my obligations at the university were pressing. I had missed much of the term, and was forced to make amends like a sniveling schoolboy before I could go off once more. Not much was required other than my presence, but there was little I could do about it. And a week or two of quiet reflection was no bad thing, I think, even though at the time my fiery temperament naturally wanted to bring the matter to an end as soon as possible.

My few friends, by this stage, were abandoning me, so preoccupied were they by their own petty affairs. It grieved me greatly, and saddest of all was the distraction of Thomas who, when I called on him, neither asked me how I was nor how my quest was progressing. I was barely in the room before he launched into bitter complaints, revealing such a violence of soul that the ultimate outcome should not have surprised me as much as it did.

In short, it was becoming clear to him that his claims on the living were to be shunted aside in favor of Dr. Grove. The times were changing faster than he had reckoned. The new laws on conformity which the government had introduced made almost any deviation from the steady orthodoxy of the Anglican church punishable. Independents, Presbyterians, everyone but virtual Catholics (in my friend’s opinion) were to be crushed and starved, denied any possibility of preferment.

Personally, I welcomed such legislation as long overdue. The sectaries had done well under Cromwell and I could see no reason why they should be allowed to continue in prosperity now. For twenty years or more we had endured these arrogant presumptives, who had expelled and tormented those who disagreed with them while they had the power to do so; why should they now complain when such power was turned with just vengeance on themselves?